The Kalmyks love their homeland. I suffered greatly remembering the time when we were deported to Siberia. I even cried, I was six years old then. All that I remember from those years, I wrote down in this poem. Aged 6, I saw the worst of suffering. This pain in the heart, Now it seems like a dream. On a long winter night, My family wakes up. Having collected as much as was possible, Worrisome, they are getting prepared. The harsh order has arrived, And everyone, young and old Not believing in what has happened, Are preparing for the journey. This smoking machine is a train, It whistles, as if it is crying. For the Kalmyks with red tassels on their hats, The hard challenges have begun. The red sun cannot be seen, Only the yellow bulb is on. Huddled together, the Kalmyks are sitting, And praying to a supreme Lama. Without hot food, On a long-long road. Dear to my heart, the Kalmyks, Are dying on their way. Once they reached their destination, They were scattered across collective farms. Our poor Kalmyks, Were freezing and distressed. ‘Gold does not mix with dust’, is the proverb my mother said. And this proverb, Turned out to be a happy one. In 1955, As I remember it The impoverished, suffering Kalmyks, Finally returned to their homeland.